


Hidden Truths

by trek_locked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Drug Use, His Last Vow, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Season 3, Sherlock is with John even in death, Suicide, Suicide Notes, Unrequited Love, except it is requited but it's too late
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-06
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:52:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trek_locked/pseuds/trek_locked
Summary: His Last Vow, except Sherlock overdoses in the drug den.John is left to grieve again, wondering why his best friend is gone, and this time won't return. But even in death, Sherlock will always be there for John, to guide him and show him the truth.





	Hidden Truths

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first fanfics I ever wrote. It's been sitting on my computer for years, and while my writing has improved, I just wanted to post it without anymore edits or hassle. Sorry for how depressing it is.

Sherlock looked down at the gleaming needle he held in his trembling hand, and wished desperately that he was the high functioning sociopath he claimed he was. But despite the façade he wore, that everyone believed, it was not the truth. Because if it were, Sherlock wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be feeling _this_. This feeling in his chest, a constant, tightening ache. This feeling in his stomach, a never ending swarm of Rhopalocera, wings insistently fluttering. This feeling that set his nerves on end, that he could physically feel every ticking second as the day passed by. Every waking morning, he was reminded of it as his gut instantaneously sank. It haunted his dreams, dreams of golden hands roaming over him, and gentle lips coaxing his mouth into soft kisses. Sherlock couldn’t escape this feeling, couldn’t stop it. Except he could. With this beautiful, perfect, _deadly_ needle.

Bringing to mind the face that brought him his misery, yet still managed to save him every day, Sherlock watched the man appear next to him. But he wasn’t anymore. Not for real. She had stolen him, saved him, _from Sherlock_ , and he would never be Sherlock’s again.

With that final thought, he shoved the needle deep into the vein lodged in the crook of his elbow and felt the familiar rush of nothingness. As the drug kicked in, a grinning tan face, surrounded by a halo of golden hair shimmered in his mind. Two piercing blue eyes stared straight at him for the last time.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” it whispered.

“Goodbye, John.”

* * *

 

John woke up, a gasping sinking feeling in his gut. Dreams of endless blue skies and swirling sand, blazing suns and starlit nights, complete with a cacophony of gunshots and screams, he could deal with. But bright, inquiring blue eyes, a shaggy mop of twisting black curls, and a quirky grin meant only for him, he could not.

Shaking his head to rid it of the sight he missed so dearly, John finally realized what had woken him from his adrenaline-filled slumber – an insistent knocking at the door.

Swinging his feet over the side of the bed, John shuffled over to the bedroom door and slung on a robe. Yawning, he continued past the kitchen and sitting room, and reached for the flat door.

The sight of his anxious neighbor greeted him. Her shaking hands, red eyes, and nosy sniveling shocked him. Mary came up behind to peer through the slightly cracked open door, and ever the solution, invited the weepy woman in.

John followed them, listening to their conversation half in a daze. Thoughts of cases, criminals, and brilliant deductions still occupied his mind.

“He does drugs, you know,” registered in his mind. “He’s always caught up in the wrong crowd, and there’s this – place – they all go to shoot up.”

John was already on his feet. “Where?”

_Drugs, it had to be drugs_ , he thought. _Why does everything have to hit so close to home?_

* * *

The drive there was terse. Mary was angry with him for reacting so quickly, and for suddenly caring.

_She doesn’t understand_ , John thought. _If it were – him – I’d want someone to go, too_. Mary thought only of his violent reaction with the tire iron, which he told her was only in case of an emergency, and only of his love, his need, for adrenaline and purpose.

_But what about his love for his friend?_ he thought as he strode towards the deteriorating building and climbed its punctured stairs.

Spraining the kid’s arm, that was adrenaline. His purpose – his mission – was making him feel whole again, just like a certain someone else always did. It caused John to follow the druggie’s instructions up the stairs.

Entering a room at random, John began calling out. “Thomas? Thomas? Thomas!”

Hurrying over to the half-unconscious man, he knelt down, and began a brief health check on the wasted boy.

That’s when he finally noticed the body lying next to him.

* * *

Everything faded away. John heard nothing but echoes, and saw nothing but the dirty man in front of him.

“Sherlock?” he whispered brokenly. Whispering turned to calling, calling to shouting, shouting to screaming. Crawling over on his knees, John rolled Sherlock over and held a quivering left hand under his nose. Nothing.

“Shit,” John swore, grabbing for a wrist. Nothing. No pulsing, steady beat. No flow of life through the fading veins. No sign of Sherlock.

John let out a choked sob as he pulled the limp body towards him, cradling the drooping head against his chest. From afar, he saw drops of water splash on his best friend’s alabaster skin, and wondered where it was coming from. A leaky roof?

_No_ , he realized, _from me._ A quick swipe of his hand across his face, and he felt the endless streams pouring from his eyes. _Turn it off. Turn it OFF!_

“Doctor?” a soft voice questioned from behind.

“Leave me alone,” was the gasping answer that broke through his silent heaves.

“Sir, I think you need some help. Is that your lady in the car out front?”

John slowly turned around, unaware of his body as if he were a mile away, in a place where numbness was all that existed. “Yes,” he croaked out. “And these two are mine,” he gestured, pointing to Thomas’s still figure and tightening his hold on Sherlock.

“Alright, doc. How about I get this one, and you bring the one your holding over there?”

Finally, John looked up through his blurry vision and recognized his assistant as the druggie whose arm he’d just messed up. The figure smiled weakly at him, and gathered his neighbor’s son’s body into his arm, wincing slightly as his sprained arm struggled to hold the weight.

“Sorry about that,” John muttered, glancing down.

“Not to worry. Now I’ll just get a nice meal and a warm bed in a hospital,” said the boy with a wink as he trotted off.

John adverted his gaze, and looked down again at Sherlock. Folding him gently in his arms, he cradled the genius’s head against his shoulder and slowly stood up.

“Come on. Let’s bring you home.”

* * *

Mary was waiting by the car with crossed arms and a frown that intensified when she saw them.

“What’s going on?” she called, taking a step towards him.

“He needs medial help,” was all he would say as he walked towards the driver’s seat. John slid inside the car, maintaining his gentle but stable grip on Sherlock, and buckled them both in. Starting the ignition, he peered at Mary, who continued to stand by the passenger door with a disapproving look. He continued to stare until she too slid into her seat with a deep sigh.

An energetic “Hello!” came from the back of the van. “I’m Bill, but my friends call me Billy, so you can too. Are we going to a hospital?”

Mary snapped back a reply. “I don’t know where we’re going or even who you are. All I know is my ridiculous husband goes in to a drug den to find one person and comes out with three and no explanation. So until that happens, I have no idea.”

That was the final straw. John slammed on the brakes.

“CAN’T YOU SEE HE’S NOT BREATHING?”

Mary turned to look at him with wide eyes. “Who?”

“SHERLOCK!”

“What?” she whispered, finally noticing the man in his arms. “I- That’s Sherlock?”

It was all John could do not to punch her, someone, something. He took a deep breath through his nose, let it out, and restarted the car.

“Yes. And he’s dead.”

* * *

John didn’t know what to do but take him to St. Bart’s. While he drove, he made a call to Mycroft and requested he meet him at the hospital, but gave no other information.

The drive there was tense. Mary hadn’t spoken since his outburst, and while he regretted snapping at her, making it up to her was the least of his worries. The boy, who had mentioned his name as Billy, also remained silent, sensing now was not the time to talk. And their neighbor remained mostly unconscious, his only sign of life muttered groans now and then.

Quite frankly, John could care less. He didn’t want anything right now except for a breath from Sherlock, a sigh, a groan, a word, a brilliant deduction. Which would never come. So he too waited in silence, thoughts occupied.

Sherlock was brilliant. Sherlock was John’s best friend. Sherlock was John’s best man only a few short months ago. Sherlock was John’s life. So why did Sherlock leave? Why did he _choose_ to leave? John had thought Sherlock was happy. Before the wedding, they continued to solve crimes amidst detailed planning, of which Sherlock played a huge part in. During the wedding, Sherlock had seemed to enjoy himself, despite some awkwardness in such a large and sentimental social gathering. But he had written the sweetest speech John had ever heard, _for him_ , and proclaimed it with such emotion. After the wedding, while John hadn’t seen Sherlock much, Greg never mentioned anything off about him during any of their nights at the pub. Mycroft had never called, ordering him to take care of Sherlock or watch him or babysit him. So why was he here, lying – _dead_ , John told himself, _say it like it is_ – in his arms and not alive and well at Baker Street? That was the question that continued to haunt his mind.

* * *

St. Bart’s was just like he remembered, the same white hallways, white doors leading to rooms filled with science equipment and medical supplies, and bustling lab assistants with white coats that flared as they hurried off.

On autopilot, John found himself walking towards Molly’s office, only vaguely aware of the others following behind him. He got many questioning looks and mouths about to form “Can I help you?” but he brushed them off with a stern glance and a tightening of arms.

He still hadn’t let go of Sherlock.

Reaching the door to Molly’s domain, he pushed open the door with his back and elbow, and swung into her room. A surprised squeak greeted him.

“I’m sorry to surprise you, Molly. I just- I have an issue.”

The young girl took one look at the man in his arms and understood.

“Here, lay him on this table.”

John followed her lead and gently set him down upon the flat surface, making sure to protect Sherlock’s head. Molly began to check his vitals. After a moment, she froze.

“John?” she whispered. “He’s not breathing.”

“I know,” he simply said.

The door swung open behind them, and the two turned to look as the rest of the group followed in. Leading them was Mycroft, who seemed as calm as ever, except for the white knuckles and tight grip he maintained on his umbrella’s handle.

“John, Molly. How is he?” Mycroft asked politely, stepping closer to the table that held Sherlock’s body.

“Dead.”

The British government’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “What?” he said, eyes flashing dangerously.

“He’s dead,” John repeated with a slouch of his shoulders. “I found him in a drug den like this. He was long gone.”

“I – “and then Mycroft swept out, phone instantly pressed to his ear, mouth already moving.

John felt numb. In a trance, he watched Molly begin her autopsy, almost on autopilot, but he knew it was just to distract herself from the oncoming tears. He felt Mary come up behind him and fold him in her arms, but instead of feeling comforting, it felt constricting and too tight. The other two druggies had set themselves up on another table to receive medical attention, and a nameless lab coat flitted around them. All he wanted was to go home. But not “home,” where he and Mary lived in a modern flat. Not “home,” his old army-pension rooms that qualified more as “room,” singular. Home, Baker Street, the place where he truly lived, where he thrived. The place where he had been saved and was safe. His comforting, comfortable home, with all its eccentricities, including his companion who used to live there also.

But he couldn’t leave. Because Sherlock was also his home, and he should’ve never left him. Despite the fall, despite his anger, despite Mary, he should’ve come back. Sherlock had needed him, and John had left him. Left him alone at Baker Street, with only his skull to talk to. Left him alone at crime scenes, with no one to defend him from Anderson and Donovan’s biting remarks. Left him alone in life, like John promised Sherlock he would never do.

John pulled away from Mary and sat down on the stool next to the table. He grasped Sherlock’s hand, limp and cold, but held on anyway. After a moment, John let his head rest on his elbow, lying down halfway, parallel to Sherlock’s body on the table, never letting go of his friend’s hand.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he whispered.

* * *

Time passed. John wasn’t sure how much, or how quickly. All he knew was questions were asked, coffee and tea alike were thrust into his hand, and many people came and went. All he knew was he never answered any of the inquiries, never drank any of the liquids given to him, and never noticed the faces involved in coming and going. All John was aware of was his anchor point, the tight grip he maintained on Sherlock’s hand. He wouldn’t let him down this time.

Eventually, a soft tug on his elbow finally got his attention. It was Lestrade.

“Hey, mate. I know it’s tough, but I’m gonna need you to let go.”

John felt his vision spiral. His hands clenched, eyes shut, and lungs drew in a shaky breath.

“I can’t.”

“You can, mate. I understand. But holding on won’t help him.”

Greg didn’t get it. He didn’t understand. How would Sherlock know John was there now if he didn’t hold on? How would John maintain their fragile connection if he lost Sherlock’s transport? John couldn’t, and wouldn’t, let go.

“John, you are being ridiculous,” he heard his wife snap from afar.

“Oi, his best mate just died. Be gentle,” the detective inspector snapped back.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’ll let go, but only if I can have a moment alone with him first. Please.”

John awaited their reply with bated breath. He looked between Greg and Mary, and then at Mycroft, who stood hidden in the corner, staring at his dead brother.

“Let him,” said Mycroft, unfolding himself from the wall and heading towards the door. Greg and Mary followed, the latter with a deep sigh and a pointed look.

As soon as everyone left, John climbed up on the table and lay down next to Sherlock. It felt off, just laying there, only their sides touching. So John turned over and drew the man into him. Tucking the detective’s head under his chin and pressing his nose into the curls, he tangled their legs together closely. He’d always wanted to do this, since the night John had met the man. Now that said man was gone, it didn’t matter what he did.

A choked sob escaped his throat.

“I’m sorry.” A pause.

“I swear I’ll do better.” No good.

“I won’t leave you alone again.” He would have to forever.

“I’ll find out why you did this. And then hopefully you can forgive me, wherever you are. Cause I can feel you. I hear you in my head sometimes. Scratch that. All the time. Everywhere I go. I see you when I’m on the Tube and walking to the clinic. I smell you when I pass someone with a cigarette. I taste you when I eat takeout Chinese and chicken curry. I did that before you died. And I will continue, because I can’t get rid of you, you annoying bastard. I love you.”

“Goodbye.”

A kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head, right in the center of the mop of inky curls. Another to his forehead, and a third to the tip of his nose.

One last, lingering kiss, a soft touch of lips, a gust of breath, an unspoken goodbye.

* * *

John refused to speak to anyone after that. It made him nauseous to think of going to his and Mary’s flat, to go anywhere but Baker Street, so there he went.

The rest of his trip at St. Bart’s was hazy, like a half remembered dream. There was something that involved walking out a few doors, some pushing past people, and some ignoring of yelling, possibly from his wife and maybe Mike Stamford? John wasn’t really sure.

He did know he taken a cab to Baker Street, like Sherlock would’ve done. Stepping out onto the pavement and seeing the familiar door hit him hard. It was all he could do open said door before breaking down. Out of habit, John used his old key from when he used to live there, and apparently Sherlock hadn’t changed the lock, as the black door swung open.

Ms. Hudson called something from her flat downstairs, but John just took the seventeen stairs two at a time, not wanting to deal with her loving fussing right then.

As soon as he hit the landing, John burst through the door to the sitting room, and he could imagine nothing was different. Pulling off his coat, he stepped in and called, “I’m home, Sherlock.”

Though reality provided nothing but silence, John could clearly hear in his mind a questioning, “You’d been out?” coming from the kitchen. With a chuckle, he headed towards the voice, knowing that if anyone saw him, they would send him to the looney bin.

“I was, in fact. What are you doing over there?”

“Experiment,” was the reply that came from the figure sitting at the table. Sherlock was looking at his microscope intently, surrounded by a golden glow that signified he existed only in John’s imagination.

“Hope you clean it up,” John countered back, settling into their old routine with ease. It was easier here, to pretend. But he knew it wouldn’t last long. For when he rounded the corner, he saw an open door. An open door to Sherlock’s room. A door that was never, never _ever,_ open.

His fantasy Sherlock followed him to where he stood, frozen.

“What, John? Is it really that much of a bother?”

John decided not to answer and walked carefully towards the door that seemed to call to his very soul. Sherlock, with his warm, reassuring glow, trailed behind.

“Well? What are you waiting for?”

He didn’t know. A sign? Then again, the surprisingly accurate reincarnation of the consulting detective urging him on was probably sign enough.

John walked in. It was dark, so dark he could barely see the outline of the furniture. The only light came from what filtered in from behind the blackout curtains. With a few shuffling steps, John’s wandering hand felt for the lamp he knew rested on the wooden night stand. Finally finding the switch, he flicked it on and took another look at the room.

A gasp escaped him. The wall across from the bed was covered in pictures. Pictures of _him_.

He saw himself laughing at a crime scene, unaware of the camera. One from his wedding, standing next to his best man and best friend. Another at Angelo’s, where he was gazing out the window contently. They showed him amongst his daily activities from when he used to live at Baker Street: asleep on the couch, tele still humming, making tea in the kitchen, reading a newspaper in his armchair, typing up his blog on his laptop.

One in particular drew his eye. It was in the center, almost as if all the other pictures were framing it. John had no idea how Sherlock had even acquired this picture. It was a snapshot of him in Afghanistan surrounded by his mates, grinning cheekily at the camera, gun strapped to his back. In all his time at Baker Street, he had never shown anyone that picture, let alone give someone a copy of it.

“Dammit!” John cried as his toe stubbed on something when he tried to get closer. He only noticed the large black volumes after he had bent down.

Pulling one towards him as he kneeled on the floor, John opened it to find case files. Sherlock and John’s case files. Every case they had even worked on, solved or unsolved, was contained in the seven books lying on Sherlock’s floor. Evidence, photographs, notes, even the papers that used to hang on the case wall in the sitting room were in them.

John didn’t understand. Sherlock didn’t do sentiment. That was his number one rule. While John knew Sherlock cared about people and had feelings, it wasn’t like this. He didn’t keep scrapbooks for memories, he had a mind palace. Sherlock didn’t save pictures, much less hang them. This was out of character, more out of character than any of the ridiculous things John had seen Sherlock do.

It was too much. John didn’t want to think about it right now. He wanted to sleep, and when he woke up, everything would be ok. That was what he repeated to himself as he toed off his shoes and socks and pulled back Sherlock’s covers.

“John?” Imaginary Sherlock appeared in the doorway again. “What are you doing?”

“Taking a nap in your bloody room because it smells like you and I miss you. Now shut up.”

John closed his eyes. There was no reply. After a few seconds, he opened them again to find Sherlock missing from the doorway. A soft voice whispered by his ear.

“I’m right here, John. Go to sleep now.”

Turning into the voice and all the warmth it held, John allowed himself to drift off, repeating his mantra until he lost consciousness.

_Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead…_

* * *

When John awoke, it seemed like every other day. There was sunlight filtering in through the blackout curtains, warm covers cocooning his body, and a soft pillow under his head.

Yawning, John opened his eyes. Then shot straight upright.

He was in Sherlock’s room. At Baker Street. Everything that occurred yesterday came crashing back around him. John suddenly felt lost, like he was in a frothing ocean that threatened to drag him down and drown him. He couldn’t breathe. It was too much, and he was choking.

Somehow, the doctor inside of him realized he was having a panic attack. That was a bit not good.

“John, calm down. I need you to breathe with me. In, out. In, out.”

Thank god Imaginary Sherlock was there. His glowing presence grounded him enough so that John could begin to take deep, measured breaths.

“There you go. Don’t go dying on me, John. That’s not supposed to happen.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again. I just –”

“I know, John. How do you think I felt every morning?”

What? What the heck was Sherlock on about? _This isn’t the real Sherlock_ , John reminded himself. This was one created in his head, one that didn’t actually know how Sherlock felt.

“I need some tea,” John muttered, throwing off the quilt and swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a groan.

Puttering into the kitchen, John began making tea on autopilot. Belatedly, he realized Sherlock must have left everything as it was after John left Baker Street. _Interesting. Another clue_ , he thought.

After putting the kettle on, he stood waiting by the stove for it to heat. And then stopped in shock.

On the piece of wall underneath the microwave and above the stove, there was a piece of paper with a set of handwritten instructions. It read, “John’s Tea.”

What?

Leaning in closer, John realized his entire tea routine was written down on this piece of paper, except the last step, “Perfect cup of tea has been made,” was crossed out, many times. Next to it, there was a note written in Sherlock’s chicken scratch, “WHY IS IT NEVER PERFECT LIKE JOHN’S?”

John snorted. If Sherlock really followed all these directions, then it should have produced a cup of tea identical to the one John was making now. The only varying factor would be that John wasn’t making it.

That earned the piece of paper a soft smile. Sherlock had missed John’s tea enough to try and replicate it himself, multiple times. Enough to write a recipe with notes and data tables scribbled on it.

John sniffed. That, besides the pictures and scrapbooks in Sherlock’s room, was probably the sweetest thing Sherlock, in fact, _anyone_ , had ever done for him.

When the kettle began whistling, John resumed his tea-making process. Only to find he had made two cups, one for himself and one for his old flatmate. John had even made the second cup just the way Sherlock preferred it, two sugars and a drop of milk. Sighing, John set it down on the table. He thought he had lost that habit years ago, but apparently not.

With a heavy scrap, John pulled out a kitchen chair and fell into it. Taking a deep gulp of his tea, he closed his eyes and thought about what he should be doing today. He should be with Mycroft, helping plan a funeral or the like. He should be going through the routine he should’ve gone through three years ago, but never did. _Failing again_ , John thought with bemusement. Sherlock would understand.

“Are you quite done with your moping yet? There are more clues you need to find.”

Imaginary Sherlock towered over him, still managing to look pretentious and haughty with a worn out tee, flannel pajama pants, and a silk dressing gown.

“The hell, Sherlock? Clues? Let me sit and finish my tea, goddammit. I don’t need that crap right now,” said John angrily, turning away and taking another large sip of tea.

He sensed Imaginary Sherlock stiffen in response, then return to normal as if nothing had happened at all. If he didn’t know the man so well, and if it weren’t his own imagination, John wouldn’t have noticed or assumed anything was amiss. But this was Sherlock.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’ll look at whatever clues you want me to, just don’t go, ok?”

Imaginary Sherlock sniffed. “I would never leave. You’ve lost me twice already, and I won’t do it to you again.”

John breathed out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, alright. Thank you. Let’s go see what clues you were talking about. Clues for what, by the way?”

“The game, John!” Sherlock grinned. “The game is on!”

* * *

So far, Imaginary Sherlock had dragged him to the bathroom, Sherlock’s bedroom, and around the sitting room. To search for “clues” that were for who knows what. In the bathroom, John had noticed that Sherlock’s expensive shampoo and body wash were missing. In their place stood the inexpensive products John himself used. Apparently this was the first clue.

The next two clues were the scrapbooks and wall of photos in Sherlock’s bedroom. Another was found in Sherlock’s wallet, hidden in the pocket of the Belstaff coat, which Sherlock had left at the flat rather than take with him to the drug den. The clue consisted of a photo that had obviously been folded and reopened many times before. Again, the photo was of John. He was staring straight at the camera with a huge grin on his face. In his hand was a mug that read “World’s Worst Blogger,” Sherlock’s Christmas gift from when they used to live together. It still remained John’s favorite mug.

The sitting room was chalk full of clues. The music stand displayed all of John’s favorite pieces, the ones he always complimented and asked about when Sherlock played them on his gorgeous Stradivarius violin. John’s old armchair seemed well sat-in, while Sherlock’s chair seemed to have been quite neglected. John’s favorite novel, The Hobbit, and his medical textbook lay on the wood table beside the most used chair. This made John smile.

“Your old room is next,” Imaginary Sherlock said, bouncing on his heels by the stairwell.

“Really? Why? It hasn’t been used in forever, and Sherlock would’ve had no reason to go up there.”

“You’d be surprised,” was all he would say.

So John followed him obligingly up the stairs, wincing as a ghost of pain shot through his leg. He thought he’d gotten over that, too. Then they were at the stairwell, standing in front of a closed door.

“Go ahead,” said Imaginary Sherlock with a sad smile. Why was it sad?

John pushed open the door. He was expecting dust, a dark, empty bedroom, preserved and untouched from before the Fall. None of his expectations were met.

Instead, a bright, clean room with not a speck of dust in sight awaited him. The room looked like the most lived in part of the house. John gaped. It looked almost exactly like how it did when he lived here, except for Sherlock’s clothes spilling out of his meager closet and a few unfinished experiments hiding in the corners. The bed was unmade, covered in all of John’s old bed linens.

Sherlock had lived here. He had slept here. He had aired out the room and set it up just like it had been when John resided here. He had made the choice to ascend the stairs each night and sleep under these blankets instead of his own 50,000-thread count silk sheets.

“God, Sherlock,” came spilling out John’s mouth. Everything was starting to become clear to him.

A presence to his right made him turn. “There’s more,” Imaginary Sherlock whispered gently.

And so John walked over to the dresser and began digging through the drawers, muttering an apology when he disturbed Sherlock’s sock index in the process. He went through half the room before the discovery.

The bedside table was where he found it. A small, innocuous journal bound in leather and held closed by a piece of twine. John opened it.

Pages and pages of handwritten notes assaulted him. Tiny, cramped writing, mushed together in order to not waste any space covered them.  John noticed dates, and chose a date the week before his wedding to begin reading.

_June 24 th_

_I still think it is ridiculous to write in this thing, but as John has gone, talking aloud to no one has lost its value. So I am forced to write in this abysmal thing. Which is almost, but not quite, as abysmal as John’s wedding next week._

_He seems so happy. How can he be happy? Our moods used to reflect one another’s, but that time has long gone. Now our emotions are opposite. I was happy when I came back, when I finally saw him again, and he was angry. He hated me. Now I’m angry, miserable, and he is so happy he doesn’t even notice. John used to always notice._

_Now he notices Mary. Mary is all he ever thinks about. Sometimes I’m lucky, because when wedding planning is too much, I get a case with him. But afterwards, there is no back to Baker Street, no dinner at Angelo’s, no content, adrenaline-filled cab rides. There is Mary._

John reads page after page of this misery. He didn’t even notice he had started crying. Sherlock talks about everything, leaving the wedding early, deciding to stay away from John for these past few months, without ever explicitly saying _why_. But he can’t stop reading these confessions that the proclaimed sociopath told no one. That he would’ve told John, if John had been there to listen.

Three tissues and two nose swipes later, he finally reaches the end. Instead of a new entry, a folded letter falls out. It’s addressed to him.

_Dear John,_

_Somehow, some way, you have found this letter. And if you haven’t, and some other mind-numbing human, or god forbid, Mycroft, is reading this, you better stop right now._

_John, hello John. How are you? I am terribly sorry about dying again. Especially since this time it was for real. I just couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t-_

_I never told you much about my past with drugs. You only knew I used because I was bored, and that I overdosed a few times, nearly died once, before I was forced to become clean. I never told you how dull life was, how everyone who didn’t make it boring made it hard with their harsh words and physical beating. How school didn’t matter, people didn’t matter, life didn’t matter._

_But then I got clean, and the first few months, as you should know, Dr. Watson, were awful. I craved the release they gave me. I needed them more then oxygen. My mind had no distraction, and all it was was agony._

_But none of that compared to you leaving. You choosing Mary over me. A choice you didn’t consciously make, but made nonetheless. Because you had become my new drug. In those few years we were flatmates, I became addicted to you. Every time you left, I counted the seconds till you got back. I stored every case we solved together in a wing of my mind palace dedicated solely to you John. Every small detail about you was housed there, and I couldn’t have deleted even one if I tried. Not that I wanted to. I only survived leaving you after the Fall because I knew I was saving your life. It was better to be away from you with you alive then you dead. And because I knew I would come back._

_But when I did, you were gone. Mary had taken my place. I thought I could bring you back, tried case after case, but nothing worked. I had been through withdrawal, gotten another taste, and had to go through it all again._

_Let me tell you a secret, John. The agony of getting clean, the boredom, the physical pain, none of it,_ none of it _, compared to how it felt to come home alone every night. To have you gone. To see you marry someone who would take you away from me forever. But you were happy. And I couldn’t take that away from you. So I did all I could. Planned the wedding. Played nice with Mary. Saved the best cases for when you needed a break. I was slowly killing myself, but it made you smile. And that made it all worth it. Then I was asked to be Best Man. Your Best Man. So I wrote a speech, a beautiful speech that told everyone how I felt about you, and no one noticed. “It was sweet.” “They are such good friends.” No one noticed how much longing I poured into each word, how I wrote it all for you John, about you and me. Not you and Mary. But no one, especially not you, noticed._

_John. John Hamish Watson. John, I love you._

John sobbed. He heaved. The tears would not stop, and he couldn’t read the paper anymore. Everything from the past 24 hours came pouring out, and it was a mess. Realities shifted and locked into place, gazes were understood, memories cleared, music made sense. All the clues were for this. This truth. The truth that Sherlock, _the real Sherlock,_ had written down just for him. He didn’t know what to do but keep reading.

_I love you so much it hurts. This is why I hate sentiment. This is why I hate emotions. I can’t think anymore, about anything except you. The way you smile, the way you laugh, the way your tongue darts out when you are thinking too hard. The way you clench your fists when you’re angry and ragesniff really, really hard. The way the light filters through your hair when you sit in your chair. The way you make tea. I never could figure out how you did it. The feeling in my chest hurts so much, John. I love you. And I’m sorry._

_Since my new drug, you, is gone, I must go back to my old ways. It will be over quickly. So easily. There will be no pain. Maybe I’ll even see you, in some hallucination, some false reality. That would be bliss, John. I’ll not have to live with the sharpness in my gut any longer. I’ll be free. One little overdose and I don’t have to go another day without you._

_I love you, John. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you._

“I love you, too,” John whispers to empty air. Imaginary Sherlock is gone now; he left a long time ago. Sherlock is no more now that his goal has been met. John feels a small weight lifted. He knows now _why._ It all makes sense. John just wished he would’ve seen it before. But none of that matters. Sherlock has made his choice. In a daze, John half wishes he could follow, but knows Sherlock would never forgive him. So instead, he sets down the letter and curls up on the bed, smelling a mixture of John-and-Sherlock on the sheets and pillow. He is finally back where he belongs.

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos and comments are always welcome, I'd love to know what you think <3


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